The Fall
by hellapeachy
Summary: She falls one afternoon while they're out shopping, and suddenly his heart is in his throat. Post-ME3 Destroy Ending. Shakarian.


**A/N:** Alternate title for this fic is 'Lucky'.  
Mature rating is for language and mentions of sex. Better safe than sorry? Since I'm really bad at judging how to rate things.

So, this is my first time writing for the Mass Effect fandom. Apologies if my characterization is a bit off.  
Also, apologies to those that like the standard Jane Shepard in fics, but my own Shepard really grew on me after I took her through three whole games. I couldn't not use her in this.

Now, finally, I want to make it very clear that this fic deals with subject matter that is extremely personal to me. It was a very emotional and therapeutic experience to write this, and I hope that comes across in the finished product.

Enjoy!

x

She falls one afternoon while they're out shopping, and suddenly his heart is in his throat. Strange, how such a thing might have made him laugh a few years earlier. But not anymore—it only puts him on edge.

Her body isn't made of glass, of course. A simple slip isn't going to take out the legendary Commander Shepard, savior of the Milky Way. She has already clawed her way through too many unbeatable situations to count, coming out on top with a smirk upon her lips. She has cheated death once thanks to Cerberus, and cheated it a second time when she survived crashing to Earth along with the Citadel.

No, she is not going to break from the fall. That is not what he fears in the slightest.

What he fears is the __pain__.

A few years earlier, he thinks he might have laughed at seeing the great Commander Shepard clumsily slipping and falling while out shopping. Such an intimidating presence and nearly unstoppable force reminding everyone that she is not perfect, she is not infallible. What was the saying? She is ' _ _only human__ '? The words carry a different tone and meaning when coming from alien mouths, of course—it is not a phrase he ever says to her or any other members of her species. But the meaning behind it when spoken from one human to another is exactly what might have made him laugh back before she had ended a war and plummeted to Earth.

She is incredible, yes. She is capable of beating impossible odds. Yet, she is not a god. She is only human—or rather, only __mortal__ just like everyone else. She can clumsily slip and fall while shopping. She can get lost and hopelessly turn her eyes up to him, hoping that __he__ knows where they are supposed to be going. She can forget where she put her N7 hoodie and frantically tear apart an entire room to find it.

Those are things that he could have laughed at—the things that make her just like every one else.

And, he supposes, things that he __still__ can sometimes. But only __after__ the fear passes, only after enough __time__ has gone by.

Because she is not the same as she was before the war. She is not even the same as she was before the Crucible. Cheating death twice is something that could be considered a miracle, but even miracles cannot fix everything.

She hurts. Every day and every hour, Shepard feels pain shooting and aching through her body. Sitting, standing, walking; it does not matter. The pain is always there, a constant and entirely unwanted companion that came with her when she was carried out of the rubble in London.

And she is __lucky__.

He still remembers the doctors telling him that she may never wake up from her coma. He then remembers them telling him that even if she does, she will probably never walk again. But as she always does, Shepard beat the odds, woke up, and worked to stand up on her own two feet again. The ability to stand and walk and bend is a joy that he knows she does not take for granted after spending so many months confined to a hospital bed.

She is __lucky__.

But he knows that she does not __always__ feel lucky, though it is not something that she has ever said aloud to him. He still knows, though—he can see it on her face. The guilt that scrunches her brows and tightens her lips and glosses over her eyes afterwards whenever she cries out in pain. In those moments, she does not feel lucky or gracious and she hates herself for it. She is brought to her knees, nearly in tears from the aching and hates herself for it. She raises her arms up, asking for him to help her off of the couch and hates herself for it. She walks slower with a limp, occasionally hissing under her breath as pain shoots and burns down her legs and she hates herself for it.

Because she is __lucky__.

He does not blame her in the slightest, but does not know how to tell her this. She does not really talk about those feelings with him and he does not want to force her to if she is not ready. But that does not stop his heart from wrenching every time he knows pain is overwhelming her, or from it breaking every time he sees the guilt and anger in her expression as it starts to subside just enough for her to feel other sensations.

Perhaps he __can__ still laugh about her slipping and falling. Perhaps he __can__ still laugh about her losing her way and looking to him for directions. Perhaps he __can__ still laugh at her tearing apart a room in search of something she has lost.

But only __after__ the fear passes and she will laugh __with__ him.

Because he cannot laugh when she slips to the ground and chokes back an agonized cry. He cannot laugh when she has been on her feet, wandering for so long that it has started to make her legs weak with shooting pain. He cannot laugh when she tears apart a room and suddenly buckles over whimpering and trying not to shed tears.

No, these are things that he hates. Things that make his blood run cold and put his body on edge. Things that set off alarms in his head, making him want to protect her and bring an abrupt stop to whatever it is that is causing her to hurt so terribly. But he is a soldier and chronic pain is not something that he can fight in the ways that he was taught on Palaven. He has learned new ways, yes, but they are different. He cannot __defeat__ her pain. He cannot __win__ against it. He can only try to ease it the best he can by reading her, watching for signs, knowing when she is on the brink and needs to be helped to a place to sit or a place to lay down, or offered a glass of water to wash down a pill that will dull the ache for just a bit but make her slow and drowsy in return.

But there are still things he __can't__ prepare for. Such as the times when the pain increases sharply, suddenly.

Like when she falls while they are out shopping and her voice rings out loudly, his heart feeling as though it has leapt into his throat.

He whirls around, eyes searching wildly across the street, starting from the bench where he had left her to rest while he had stood outside a nearby store and looked at some advertisements claiming discounts for dextro-based food. It does not take him long to find her—she had not gotten very far at all before she'd fallen. Just a yard or two left of the bench he spots her, struggling to lift herself up off of the concrete and doing the best that she can to assure bystanders that she is fine through clenched teeth. Her face is pained, her arms are shaking, and her lower half is completely still, as though everything beneath her waist is an anchor keeping her stuck to the ground.

Thoughts of discounts are cast aside instantly and he full on sprints back to her, cursing the Spirits that he had not been there to catch her.

"Gwen!"

Her eyes find his as he runs towards her, and a pained grin spreads across her lips, already attempting to deflect his somewhat panicked reaction.

"I'm all right, Garrus," Shepard says, arms straining to lift herself up once more and her legs shifting to help. Her face speaks what her mouth won't, however, contorting in effort and pain. Her body flinches again, and he sees the tears prick in the edges of her eyes. He kneels down next to her, placing a hand softly upon one of her shoulders. "I just might need a little help up, is all."

She lifts a hand to him easily, something that she likely would not have done to any of the bystanders around her without heaps of insistence. Though she may not fully realize it herself, she still tries the best that she can to keep face in front of those that only know her as the Savior of the Galaxy. But to those who know her for who she is, and to him especially, she is willing to lean on them and ask for their help when she knows she truly needs it. His free hand grasps hers briefly and tenderly before he lets it go and moves to lift her off of the ground in his arms. A grunt falls forth from her, voicing both the hurt and the surprise caused by his actions and he looks down apologetically. He always tries to be as gentle as possible, but sometimes it does little good.

"I just needed help up. I don't need you to carry me." Her voice is quiet and appreciative, but also tentative and questioning. A withheld ' _ _what the hell, Vakarian__ ' is hidden somewhere very deep within her words.

"I know. Just thought it might help to let you rest on the bench again for a few minutes before we head back," he explains, crossing the distance she had covered before falling with a few short strides of his long legs.

Carefully, he lowers her back down so that she can slide into a sitting position on the hard metal of the bench. It is not very comfortable, and he had been ready to carry her the entire way home. But he knows, even if she doesn't, that a part of her wants to keep face. That she doesn't want to be carried around through the streets where passersby can notice and recognize her even more easily because of the out of the ordinary situation that would draw stares.

So, he sits down next to her and waits, all thoughts of shopping pushed from his mind. Which she can clearly see, if the suspicious narrowing of her eyes speaks for anything. And it usually does.

"Head back? Garrus, you haven't even picked anything out yet. The whole reason I got up in the first place was to tell you I remembered where it was I bought that drink you liked. You remember?"

He remembers. She had found a little place while out by herself a few weeks back that carries some rarer dextro-based foods. Things he is usually only able to get when he isn't on Earth with her. Though, as is now somewhat typical of Shepard, she had forgotten exactly where it was. She's likely been wracking her brain the entire time they have been out so far, trying to recall the name and what it looks like in comparison to all the stores they've passed.

"You did? That's good. We should go there tomorrow."

"Why not __now__? We're almost out of dextro stuff and you haven't gotten anything yet." She pauses, looking up at him with a more commanding expression, a look more akin to those she used to wear when giving orders on the battlefield as bullets whizzed by all around them. "I'm __fine__. Sitting on a bench isn't going to kill me. Go get your groceries, big guy."

There's a sentence on the tip of his tongue, about how he can wait and he'll just order something for dinner or manage to scrounge a meal together from what is left in the cupboards, but he swallows it. It had essentially been the whole reason they had decided to go out in the first place. Going home empty handed, especially when they are sitting right in front of a store that sells what they're looking for, is not practical. He shakes his head a little, standing up as he does so.

"All right. I'll be right back, then." A small smile tugs on her lips despite the way her legs shift uncomfortably beneath her.

"That place I was talking about __should__ be just a little bit down the street that way and to the left," she directs, lifting a hand to point.

He pauses, silent for a moment, debating whether he should leave Shepard there long enough to actually try to find the store in question or just stick with the one right in front of him. His gaze flicks down to her once more, and she is still smiling at him as though she is just the tiniest bit proud to have remembered where she had found the store. She always __is__ worrying that what they have in the way of dextro-based food on Earth is not good enough for him.

"Okay," Garrus says, unable to resist both her smile and the promise of something different than what is normally available to him. "I'll find it. Shouldn't take me long."

He locates the store within minutes, wondering how she'd ever had a hard time trying to remember where it is. But despite being pleasantly surprised at the selection, he chooses what he wants quickly, making his way through the aisles and the checkout at a brisk pace. She is waiting for him on an uncomfortable, metal bench right after falling, legs shifting under her unconsciously from the pain likely still shooting through her. He does not want to keep her waiting long.

He may even accidentally bump against a few people as he hurries to make his way back to her.

But her smile greets him, putting him a bit more at ease and making his heart feel like it can move from his throat and back to its proper place. He offers his free hand and pulls her up to a standing position, walking slowly beside her as she limps with him back to their home.

x

His grip upon the datapad in his hand tightens for a few seconds. She is watching him. He can feel her green eyes drilling into the side of his skull. A part of him is tempted to glance to his right and meet her gaze, just to break the sensation of being watched. She isn't angry, at least, he doesn't __think__ she is. But he can't exactly tell __what__ sort of emotions are compelling her to stare at him in such a way. It's slightly distracting, though, if not also a tad bit unnerving. He's completely forgotten what he had even been reading about.

He decides to address it. He turns and meets her eyes, tilting his head curiously.

"See something you like?" he jokes while trying to get a good look at her, to see what sort of expression she'd had the split second before his interruption.

Not that it does much to help. He catches only a small glimpse of her face before she is startled out of deep thought by the turn of his head and the sound of his voice. Her brows shoot up and she flinches a bit from surprise. It takes her a moment or two to even fully register the flirtation of his words, as she shakes her head a few times before stopping to think and then nodding instead. He almost wants to feign insult just to tease her, but gives her a chance to speak.

"I—Yes, I do, but I wasn't—I mean," she stammers before falling silent and running a hand through her short, curly, honey colored hair. A frustrated sigh falls from her lips.

And it is a strange sight to see, if he is being honest. Very rarely is she ever rendered speechless and tripping over her sentences. He sets the datapad down on the coffee table in front of them and scoots across the couch to close some of the distance. She glances up at him and leans forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder once he is within reach. One of his hands trails up, brushing against her cheek before settling in the curls atop her head. They sit in silence for a minute or two, listening only to the sound of each other breathing and the noises that drift in through the window from the outside world.

"What is it?" he finally asks, shifting to wrap his free arm around her waist. He moves carefully, slowly so as not to hurt her.

Her eyes flutter open and her head lifts up ever-so-slightly to let him know that she heard him, but she does not yet speak. He gives her time to answer, not pushing or pressuring her to string her thoughts together faster. In the meantime, he idly traces small circles into her hip with one of his fingers and waits.

"—I don't even know how to start, Garrus," she finally says, lifting her head all the way up but not meeting his eyes. Rather, she seems to focus deliberately upon looking past him towards the kitchen where bags from their shopping trip are still sitting on the counter. "It's—it's this whole damn thing. I thought that...!"

She trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, interrupted by what he knows are signs that she is close to crying. Her breathing suddenly gets heavier, and she takes long, shuddering breaths in an attempt to keep the urge in check. His grip around her tightens just the slightest bit. Her statement had been broad, but a part of him believes he knows where the conversation is going if she allows it. A slight sense of uneasiness settles inside of him, where humans call his 'gut'. There is so much he wants to say to reassure her, but he won't deny that he is __also__ afraid of saying something wrong.

Nor does he want to speak over her when she is finally opening up about the one thing she rarely wants to talk about.

"Thought that...?" he repeats softly, urging her forward once she has managed to stave off the tears. Again she flicks her gaze up to him, their eyes meeting for a few seconds before she lowers hers and looks past him once more.

"I thought... that it would get better. I thought that with time it would get easier—more bearable." Shepard's brows knit together tightly; she is practically glaring across the room at the bags of groceries. "After everything that I've endured before: bullet wounds, burns, broken bones, bruised up insides, fuck, even __death__! After __all__ of that and more, it's this damn aching and shooting and burning that I suddenly can't take. That suddenly drives me __crazy__.

"I guess I thought that this was something else that I could overcome. That if I just worked hard enough like with everything else, it would fade away. You remember how the doctors told me that I might never walk again? I think, somehow, I thought this would be exactly the same. Something else that I could prove them __wrong__ about."

She pauses, her head bowing and her eyes squeezing shut, likely to keep herself from being overcome by emotion again. Though, the way her breath begins to waver when she continues, he isn't so sure that it is working.

"But __I__ was wrong. It's not going away, and it's not getting better. I thought that if I just—just tried __hard__ enough, waited just a __little__ bit longer, that I'd be able to make things like they used to be again. I've dragged you along this whole time, deeper and deeper into something that you didn't sign up for, Garrus." Her voice breaks when she says his name, and he feels like his heart might do the same. "And I'm sorry. __I'm so sorry__...!"

All of her efforts to keep herself from crying are pointless now, a choked sob escaping her before she finally allows herself to succumb to the overflowing of emotions. And he watches, stunned into silence by both the words that have spilled out of her and the sight of her breaking down in such a way. He has seen her cry before, yes. Many times, in fact. Shepard is not nearly as stoic as the rest of the universe seems to think that she is, and they lost __so__ much to the fight against the Reapers. But he has never seen her like this.

And it worries him.

The shock finally loosens its hold upon him and Garrus feels a burning sensation bubbling in his chest. A strange cocktail of emotions that can only be described as a mixture between sadness and anger with a dash of panic. She thinks he is unhappy—that __has__ to be what she is implying. But he isn't. He hasn't been dragged along into something he doesn't want. He is happy with her, and just like he had wondered how she could have forgotten where to look for a store that was so easy to find, he wonders how she cannot see that there is no where in the universe he would rather be than at her side.

"Now, hold on," he says, uncurling his arms from around her body and trailing them up to grasp both of her shoulders firmly. "You have by no means dragged me into something that I didn't sign up for. Right here with you is exactly where I want to be, Gwen. And no where else."

There is a new noise interrupting her cries a little, something that sounds almost like a laugh, but he is not certain enough to say for sure. Because somehow, even after what he has said, she looks even more hopeless, even more broken than before. Unconsciously, his grip tightens from his confusion and worry.

"Even—even if you say that, things have __changed__ , Garrus. I'm not who I was before. I'm not—things aren't—they aren't the same. And they're __not__ going back to how they used to be!" Her chest shudders and she swallows heavily as more tears fill her eyes to replace the ones that have fallen. "I can't run, I can barely walk or stand for more than half an hour before it starts to get too much to bear and I risk toppling over. I even made you consider __not buying food__ because I __fell__ today!"

Her head snaps up suddenly, looking him right in the eyes as she struggles to even keep talking through her body's trembling, shaky breaths, and sniffling. And the expression on her face only makes him feel like his heart has leapt into his throat for the second time that day.

"I can barely shoot a __gun__ anymore—we can't just go shoot for fun like we did on top of the Presidium! Or __dance__! We can't—we can't even dance like we did in the bar!" Shepard's voice is growing desperate and ever louder. "For __fuck's__ sake, Garrus, we can't even have __sex__ like we used to! Even __sex__ hurts me, and—and I __hate__ it!"

He is silent once again, the shock of what she has said washing over him like a torrent of water. The urge to pull her fully into his arms and hold her, reassure her, is pounding against his brain. But he is frozen in place, too busy processing everything that she has poured out to him between sobs.

And, if he is being honest, he cannot __disagree__ with her. She is right—things __have__ changed.

He remembers that before they had ever even thought about 'blowing off steam', they used to clean their weapons together and talk about what models they liked the best. He remembers laughing when she had told him that she is actually a below-average sniper and that she admires his skill. He had thought she'd been messing with him until they'd actually had a friendly competition and he'd blown her score out of the water. And he will never forget the face she had made when he'd taken her to the top of the Presidium to snipe bottles out of the sky. So exasperated, yet at the same time, so ready to compete with him regardless of the fact that she was at a disadvantage.

But after the war, no, they can't really do things like that any longer.

He still laughs to himself sometimes about how reluctant she had been when he had dragged her out onto the dance floor in the bar. How she fumbled ungracefully through the beginning of their tango and promised that he would pay for getting her into such a situation. Promises, promises—she had ended up catching on quickly and they had even gathered a crowd to watch them. He's lost track of how many more times they had ended up repeating that same scene behind closed doors. After being hounded by pretty much everyone about how she can't dance, Garrus thinks she genuinely enjoyed being able to rub it in the crew's face that she could at __least__ do the tango.

Though, nowadays, even walking can be enough of a struggle for her. Let alone trying to do something like dancing.

And __Spirits__ , he still gets tingles down his spine from time to time when he remembers their first night together, awkward as it may have been at certain points. They had both been nervous and unsure of what they were doing, yet at the same time so very eager to learn. And they were both __very__ quick learners. Each and every time they had been intimate, it only seemed to get better and better. Perhaps some of that'd had something to do with the fact that Reapers had been threatening the entire galaxy, and they'd been doing their damnedest to make the most of whatever time was left available to them. No matter how many times they had promised each other that they'd both live to see the ending of the war, neither were, in actuality, naïve enough to believe that their lives __weren't__ a single misstep away from being snuffed out at any moment. But regardless of any driving reasons behind it, their sex life had been passionate, frantic, and at times even pleasantly __rough__.

Not anymore, though. Her body cannot take it. Even slow, gentle, and loving pushes her to her limits at times, pleasure becoming intertwined with sharp stabs of pain.

Yes, things have changed. They have changed a lot.

But that fact still does not make him second guess __anything__. It does not make what he said before __any__ different. As her cries begin to quiet down once again, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against her own and gripping her shoulders just a little bit tighter in an attempt to pull her attention back to him. Her chest shudders violently and her eyes crack open just a bit. Garrus opens his mouth to speak.

"Gwen—"

"And the worst thing is," she suddenly says, cutting him off likely without even fully realizing it, "The worst thing, is that—that I know how __horrible__ this all sounds! Because I'm __lucky__ , Garrus. By all rights, I shouldn't even be __alive__ right now. I—I __died__ five years ago. But I was brought back to life. __I__ was! Not Ashley, not Wrex, not anyone else— _ _me__!

"I got a second chance at life when others __didn't__ , and somehow, some- _ _fucking__ -how, I survived __again__!" Shepard's chest heaves out another sob. "Millions, billions, or even __more__ died during the war. Including Mordin, Thane, Legion, Anderson, EDI! And somehow __I__ made it out alive. They told you they weren't sure I'd ever wake up, and I __did__! They told me I might never walk again and I __did__! I'm so fucking __lucky__ , Garrus!

"And yet I'm sitting here complaining about __hurting__ , as if everyone in the fucking __Milky Way__ isn't still hurting from the war somehow. As if there aren't people that lost their entire families, or didn't even last more than a few __seconds__ once the Reapers attacked their planet! And I'm—I'm just...!"

Before she knows it, Shepard is on her back, quickly yet carefully tilted backwards into the cushions of the couch. His forehead is still pressed against hers, but his hands have moved up to entangle his fingers in her hair and force her to meet eyes with him. His subharmonics hum softly, an unconscious effort to calm her, to pull her from the thunderous storm of emotions that have wrenched and pulled her so far out to sea. Whether she realizes it or not, she is drowning—losing herself in the pain, the anger, the despair.

And he will reel her back in. Something he feels that he should have tried to do a long time ago, before she got to this torturous of a breaking point. Because her sudden outburst is not coming from nowhere; it has been building up inside her ever since she was released back into the real world and didn't have to sit in a hospital bed day in and day out. The sole reason this episode took as long as it did to happen, he now thinks, is that she has been desperately clinging to the idea that she could return to how she was before the Crucible.

But the fall while they had been out shopping—it rattled something within her. She is finally, all at once, realizing that for the rest of her life, she likely will be saddled with her pain.

And it is __breaking__ her.

"Gwen, I need you to listen to me," he says, his voice soft and barely more than a whisper. "I need you to breathe—take deep, __deep__ breaths and listen to me, all right?"

She gazes up at him between her tears and chokes back another cry, but eventually nods her head just the slightest bit. Long, shuddering breaths follow, along with quiet, unconscious whines from her throat as she tries to keep another sob at bay. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming again and rubbing his thumbs against her cheeks.

"You're right. Things __have__ changed, they're different than they used to be. You can't shoot with me anymore, dance with me anymore, and we can't get __nearly__ as crazy in bed as we did a few years back. And I'm not going to sit here and lie to you, Gwen. I __do__ miss that sometimes—I miss what we had before all that bullshit with the Crucible."

Her chest shudders harshly at his words, and she bites down hard on her bottom lip. He holds her tighter, continuing forward as fast as he can.

"But in __no__ way does that mean I'm unhappy, or that you've dragged me along for something I didn't sign up for. __Spirits__ , the __instant__ they found you in the rubble in London and I heard you had survived, I already __knew__ that our lives were changing. I __knew__ things would never be the same as they had been before. I've been prepared and at peace with the changes that I knew were coming since before you even __woke up__ from your coma.

"I love __you__ , Gwen Shepard, and I want to spend my time with __you__. All of those things we used to do, even if I miss them from time to time, are __nothing__ compared to the fact that you're still __here__ , you're still __alive__ , that I still get to learn __more__ about you, and discover __new__ things to do with you that I enjoy."

The floodgates have opened and she is crying once more. He drags his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away tears that streak down them, humming with his subharmonics again. He isn't finished talking, but lets her have a moment to absorb everything that he's said so far. And if the way that her arms move up to wrap around his neck is any indication, she at least appreciates the sentiment.

But he knows that she is __stubborn__. He has not truly begun to pull her back—not yet.

"Garrus, I—" she begins, as if right on cue. He snaps one of his hands down to place a finger over her lips and silent her once again.

"Please, just listen a little longer, all right? I'm not done," he whispers before pressing his mouth plates to her forehead, mimicking the soft kisses that she often plants upon him. "These are all things I should have tried to tell you a long time ago. I need to make up for that."

The smallest nod of confirmation is all that he needs to continue, locking eyes with her once more.

"You of all people know that I tend to expect the worse, right? When you left me on the Normandy and ran to the beam, a part of me really thought that it would be the last time I'd ever see you. And when the Crucible was activated, the Citadel crashed to Earth... I really was sure that you had died, Gwen. I'll admit that." He pauses for a brief moment, closing his eyes and suddenly reliving that moment in his mind's eye. "And when we heard they found your body, the only thought I had was 'at least I'll get closure'. Imagine my surprise when I learned you were actually __alive__.

"Then when I saw you again for the first time, hooked up to so many tubes and just barely holding on, I expected the worse again. But just like you always do, you beat my pessimism to a pulp and came back to me, like you promised you would. You woke up when they said you wouldn't, you walked when they said you couldn't—you're right. You __are__ lucky.

"But just because you lived, just because you can walk, doesn't mean that it's somehow __wrong__ of you to still be in pain. So what if the rest of the Milky Way is hurting too? Just because someone out there has it worse doesn't mean you need to bottle everything up and suffer in silence! After __everything__ that you endured, gave, lost, and sacrificed to end that __fucking__ war, you deserve to live a happy, peace-filled life free of pain! But you didn't __get__ that! Instead, you got daily agony! I don't know how you do it half the time, and I can't even __imagine__ what you go through."

Voice raising some and his eyes drilling into hers, Garrus tightens his grip just a bit, doing his damnedest to drive the message home to the woman in his arms.

"You're __allowed__ to be angry! You are __allowed__ to hurt! You're __allowed__ to cry! You're __allowed__ to __feel__ , Gwen!"

A pregnant silence fills their apartment, even the noise from the outdoors seeming distant and muffled as the two of them stay perfectly still on the couch. And he watches, staring intently as his words sink in and are absorbed into her mind. Her brows are knit together, an array of expressions passing over her face, switching back and forth as though she cannot decide which emotion she feels the strongest. Surprise, anger, sadness, disbelief, happiness—he thinks that he can see flickers of them all. But eventually, one seems to overpower the others, contorting her face and making her close her eyes with a grunt of discomfort: pain.

It is then that he remembers their position is not the most ideal to keep her from hurting, and he promptly but also slowly lifts both himself and her back up to how they had previously been situated on the couch. He keeps her close, though, hands still cupping her face and thumbs brushing lightly against her tear-stained cheeks.

Eventually, once she is more comfortable, her eyes slide open again, and she lifts her head to look up at him. A strained, not entirely genuine smile twitches at her lips and he knows that she doesn't believe him. Or, at least, not fully. There is still guilt in her eyes and in her heart. Despite everything he's said, the message has not completely been heard or accepted. But, he thinks with a soft exhale, it is fine. He would have to be a complete fool to expect that just __one__ conversation, just __one__ instance of reassurance would free her of all her insecurities, her volatile emotions surrounding what had happened with the Crucible, her chronic pain, and beyond.

"Garrus, I—I don't know what to say. You're too good to me, and I—I just," Shepard finally says, her voice thick from all of the tears she has shed, and her sentences disjointed.

"You don't have to believe me right away," he interjects. "I don't expect you to. But I want you to __try__. Because everything I said to you is the truth. And I'm going to be here beside you every single step of the way. There's __no__ place in the universe I'd rather be."

For what seems like the hundreth time that day, she chokes back a sob and fresh tears fill her eyes. But unlike before, he can see that she is not swept out to sea, drowning as a storm of emotions rages around her. The shake of her chest and the sound of her cries are grateful and exhausted rather than despair-ridden and overwhelmed.

"Thank—Thank you, Garrus. Thank you so much," she says before leaning up to press a kiss against the mandible on the scarred side of his face. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You told me once that there's no Shepard without Vakarian." He hooks a finger under her chin and tilts her head up higher so that he can capture her lips against his mouth for a few fleeting moments. "Well, there's no Vakarian without Shepard either. Face it, Gwen, no matter __how__ things change, you're stuck with me."

The first real laugh he's heard from her all day rings through their apartment like a chiming bell, and again he feels his heart moving from his throat back to where it should be.

"Lucky me."


End file.
